Genesis. Volume 2

October 21, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Evening. The rain didn't stop. Emma stood on the porch, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, watching murky streams run down the sidewalk. She'd come out twenty minutes ago to get some air, but the air was just as damp and heavy as inside the house. Only here, it didn't smell of iodine and other people's tears. She didn't cry. The tears had run out back in New York, dried up like old paint. All that was left was emptiness and a cold that wouldn't go away, even when she drank hot tea, even when she wrapped herself in a blanket, even when she clutched her dog tag in her fist. The house behind her was silent. Arthur had gone upstairs and hadn't come out. Max had gone in to see him, then come back down, pale and white-lipped, and said only: "He doesn't remember his face at all." Emma didn't ask whose. She knew. Mark sat in the kitchen, drinking cold coffee and staring at a single point. Sofia clattered pots, pretending to cook dinner, but her hands were shaking, and she kept stopping, pressing her palm to her mouth. Jenny and Isabelle had gone to Lisa's room to stay out of the way. "Emma." She turned. Liam stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His face was tired, dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling—that same stupid smile that had irritated her at first and then became familiar. Almost dear. "I thought you'd run off," he said. "Nowhere to run. It's raining everywhere." He stepped onto the porch, stood beside her. He smelled of tobacco and smoke—he'd been smoking in the car while he waited. Emma knew he was trying to quit. She'd tried too, once. "We need to talk," Liam said. "I'm listening." He paused. Then he pulled a folded sheet from his pocket—an order, in a plastic sleeve, stamped with the Circle's seal. "Got it this morning. While you were traveling." Emma took the sheet, scanned it. Official language, dry phrasing. "Agent Cross... urgent directive... report to London branch..." She didn't finish. "When?" she asked, her voice too steady. "Tomorrow. Evening. Flight from New York." She handed the paper back. Her fingers didn't tremble—she wouldn't let them. "Congratulations. You've been promoted." "Emma..." "Don't." She turned back to the street. "You're a soldier. Soldiers follow orders. I understand." "It's not a promotion. It's a reassignment." Liam's voice dropped. "Tucker said they're pulling me from your team. They think I'm too close to the case. Losing objectivity." "Losing objectivity?" She spun around, something sharp flashing in her eyes—not tears, but anger. "You were just doing your job. Helping us." "I fell in love with you." He said it simply, like stating a fact. "That's not in the job description." Emma froze. He didn't look away. His brown eyes—warm, alive—watched her without any guile. As if he'd said "it's raining" or "tomorrow will be cold." "You can't fall in love with me," she finally managed. Her voice cracked—for the first time in the whole conversation. "Why not?" "Because I'm broken. Because everything I touch falls apart. Because..." "Because you wear a red thread, just like me." He interrupted gently but firmly. "Because you're afraid of losing the people you love. Because you've already lost Jack, and Arthur, and Lisa—not physically, but partly, and it's killing you inside." He stepped closer. "I know all of that. And I'm still here." "Then you're an idiot." "I've said that before. I know." She wanted to answer sharply, bitingly—to push him away, to protect herself. But the words stuck in her throat. Because he was right. And she was afraid too. Not for herself—for him. That he'd leave and not come back. That the red thread tying them together would snap. "How long?" she asked. "What?" "How much time do we have? Before you leave." He glanced at his watch—old, military, with a worn strap. "About a day. Not counting the drive to the airport." "A lot," Emma said, swallowing. "And too little." She didn't know what to do with that time. She didn't know how to say goodbye—she was used to people disappearing suddenly, leaving only emptiness and a scent behind. Jack, her father, her mother... everyone she'd ever cared about. "Let's not say goodbye," Liam said, as if reading her thoughts. "Let's just... until tomorrow." "Until tomorrow." He smiled—faintly, at the corner of his mouth. Then he reached out and squeezed her fingers. His palm was warm, rough, callused on the pads. Emma squeezed back and didn't let go. The rain kept falling. Upstairs, in Arthur's room, it was quiet. Somewhere in Chicago, Lisa was sleeping in a hospital room, dreaming of circles. And here, on the porch, stood two people who didn't know what tomorrow would bring. "Tell me about London," Emma asked. "It's cold. Damp. And people smile even when they want to kill you." "Just like home." "Everywhere." He shrugged slightly. "Monsters don't know borders." They fell silent. The wind brought the smell of wet leaves and distant barking. Somewhere a door slammed—someone had come out of the house. Emma didn't turn around. It was Max. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at them, but said nothing. Just nodded and went back inside. "Good kid," Liam observed. "Nervous, but good." "They're all good. That's why they're still here." "And you too." "And me." She suddenly realized she didn't want this evening to end. Didn't want tomorrow to come. Didn't want Liam to leave. But time couldn't be stopped. Tucker couldn't be persuaded. She couldn't go with him—her place was here, with the team. "Will you come back?" she asked. "I don't know. But I'll try." "Promise." "I don't make promises I can't keep." "Then don't leave." He looked at her. There was pain in his eyes—not because she was asking the impossible, but because he couldn't give it to her. "If I stay, they'll remove me. Not from the team—from the Circle. Then I won't be able to help. Won't be able to protect you." "I protect myself." "I know. That's why I'm going. To come back stronger." She couldn't find a reply. She just squeezed his fingers tighter and raised her eyes to the gray sky. "Go inside," Liam said. "You'll freeze." "I won't freeze." "Emma." "I said I won't freeze." He sighed, took off his jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm, smelled of smoke and leather. Emma didn't refuse. "Thanks." "Don't mention it." They stood on the porch until the rain stopped. And when the sky cleared and the moon appeared from behind the clouds, Liam gently pulled her toward the door. "Tomorrow will be a long day. You need to sleep." "I won't sleep." "Then at least pretend." She let him lead her inside. The hallway was warm, smelled of pie—Sofia had baked one to keep her hands busy. Emma took off her wet sneakers, placed them by the radiator, and went into the living room. Arthur had come downstairs. He stood in the doorway, barefoot, in a t-shirt and sweatpants, looking at her. His eyes—green, once alive—were now empty. "Are you okay?" Emma asked. "No." He paused. "But I got up. That's something." He walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. Sofia put a bowl of soup in front of him. He didn't eat—just stared at the steam. Emma sat across from him. "Liam's leaving tomorrow." "I know. He told Max." "You don't mind?" "Mind what?" "Us being without him." Arthur looked up at her. Something flickered in his eyes—maybe irony. Maybe bitterness. "We were always without him, Emma. He came when we needed help. Helped. Now he's leaving. That's normal." "Normal." She leaned forward. "Everything is normal. Arthur, look at yourself. You don't remember your father's face. Lisa is in the hospital with a broken arm. Max stabbed a person and can't look at his own hands. Jenny bled out. And you say—normal?" "No." He shook his head. "Not normal. But we're alive. So we keep going." "Going where?" "London. Kane. The Sleeper." He listed them as evenly as a shopping list. "We have the dagger shards. Jenny's blood. Lisa will learn to draw left-handed. And Elias is waiting in London." "And if it doesn't work?" "It will." He said it with such certainty that Emma believed him for a second. Then she looked into his eyes—and understood: he didn't believe it himself. He just couldn't afford to doubt. Because if he broke, everyone would break. "You're a good leader," she said. "No." Arthur stood, put his bowl in the sink. "I'm just the one who's left." He started toward the stairs, pausing on the bottom step without turning around. "Emma." "Yeah?" "Take care of him. Liam. We don't have many good people left." "I'll try." He went upstairs. Emma stayed in the kitchen, staring at the cooling soup. Sofia was crying quietly by the stove, wiping tears with the edge of her apron. Mark sat in his chair, staring at one spot—just like Arthur, a moment ago. "They look alike," Emma thought. "Broken the same way. Only one knows why, and the other doesn't." She stood, walked to the window. The moon hung low, yellow as an old circus ticket. On the hill, in the Genesis mansion, a gray light burned. Jack was watching the city. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just watched. Emma pressed her dog tag to her lips. "Hang on. We'll come back." She didn't know who she was saying it to—Jack, Liam, herself. But it didn't matter. What mattered was this: they were still walking. Even when everything fell apart. Even when faces faded. Even when arms broke. They walked. Because the war wasn't waiting. Because the Sleeper was calling. Because London was close. And tomorrow, Liam would leave. And she would stay. With the team. With the memories. With the red thread pulsing in time with her heart. Emma squeezed her dog tag and walked into the living room. Max and Jenny were talking quietly. Isabelle sat in the corner with a book she wasn't reading. "Tomorrow," Emma said, sitting on the couch. "Tomorrow we start preparing for London." "And tonight?" Max asked. "Tonight—we just be together." No one argued. In the Walkers' house, under the sound of rain, five teenagers sat in the dim light and were silent. Each thought of their own things. Of lost faces. Of broken arms. Of those leaving. And of those staying. And somewhere in Chicago, Lisa opened her eyes and began to draw with her left hand. Circles. Horseshoes. Protective lines. Crooked, trembling, but alive. She wasn't giving up. And neither would they. Because the war was only just beginning.